élan

This word is a lean little thing, but I think it displays some of the quality it names. To an Anglophone’s eyes, the accent on the é certainly adds to that: it looks dashing, ready to sally forth – in that musketeerish way one may think of the French as having. The word often seems to mean ‘flair’ or ‘verve’ or ‘panache’, but dictionaries describe it as ‘vivacity’, ‘impetuousness’, ‘dash’, or ‘ardour’. The smooth and quick liquid sound of the word adds an elegance. One may display élan by rushing forth and clearing enemy lines like an eland bull, but this word is more of an antelope, really.

Élan is seen in élan vital, a concept set forth by Henri Bergson, an idea of a kind of vital force in all things, a life force that wants to burst forth, an impetus against entropy. Bergson presented it as a hypothetical force behind evolution, but one may readily use it in a broader sense as that liveliness that wants to spring forth, to join together, to effloresce, to create – however intrinsic or emergent it may be.

Élan is also a brand name of skis, and of a few other things as well; it also gives me a taste of some other words: island; uileann pipes (a kind of Irish bagpipe); álainn, the Irish word for ‘beautiful’ (pronounced like “alling”); and the names Elaine and Ellen. Both Elaine and Ellen are considered to be versions of Helen, but there is some suggestion that Elaine may also come from a Welsh word for ‘fawn’ – at least the Elaine seen in Arthurian legend, where it is the name of several women, notably Elaine of Corbenic, who has some undeniable élan: she draws Sir Lancelot from Guinivere, bears him Sir Galahad, and shows him the Holy Grail (thereby restoring his sanity). It occurs to me that every Elaine I know has a certain élan… though, of course, that’s not a large or scientific sampling.

And where does élan come from? French, obviously, but specifically the verb élancer ‘rush forth’, which traces back to Latin ex ‘out’ and lanceare ‘throw a lance’ (from lancea ‘lance’). This makes it surprisingly similar to the word sally, another word for venturing boldly forth that has a coincidental overtone (extremely strong in its case) of a female name – and is also two syllables with a [l] in the middle. Bold words, full of ardour, and yet vital with a lithe femininity in form and sound, at least to my ears.

loligo

Visual: This is a nice mix of characters, with two googly eyes o o, a pair of columns l l, a dot on the i, and that wriggly g reaching below. So much fun and variety in a half dozen letters. Four loops, three sticks, a dot.

In the mouth: It may look like it should be said like “lol ego,” but officially (due to what Brits did to the long i’s in Latin) it’s like “low lie go” or “LOL I go.” So the tongue taps softly twice, makes a wave (concave to convex) in the diphthong, and then bounces off the back while the lips round. Rhythmically it’s an amphibrach.

Echoes: I’m sure you, like me, immediately thought of oligosaccharides. No? How about lollypop or impetigo, or maybe religion or ligament or log or goil? Or oil or googly or gigolo – or, of course, low, lie, LOL, I, and go.

Etymology: This is a Latin word, presented unaltered in the spelling but Anglicized in the pronunciation. The original Latin would be like “lo lee go” – which may well be the way it looks to you like it should be said. But when English shifted its vowels, it shifted how it rendered Latin vowels too.

Overtones: This seems a rather elegant word, doesn’t it? In a better league of words? Unless it’s a name for something unpleasant, like a skin condition – no, that’s impetigo. Actually it’s a name for a kind of thing many people (including me) like to eat. It’s a much more pleasant-sounding word than squid, although it may lose out to calamari.

Semantics: Taxonomically it’s a cephalopod. Yes, a loligo is a kind of squid (or actually a family of squids), one much fished for commercial purposes. It’s a flattened cylindrical squid, with a head that looks a bit like a supersonic fighter jet and two long side tentacles to go with its half-dozen shorter ones. It grows up to 3 feet long.

Where to find it: You won’t see this word on a restaurant menu; they’ll just call it squid or calamari. This is a word for the biologists. Pity, because it’s a nice word.

How to use it: You can keep it technical, or go for LOLs: “I’ve had a fascinating date. You are a gentleman and a loligo.”

persnickety

Not all the greenery in word country is equally easy to tend. One of the fussiest is the persnickety bush. It demands proper water, light, and tending, and must not be overused. It has a delightful flavour, almost lemony, with clear hints of persimmons and snickerdoodles, but if it is overpicked or used too persistently it will surely make you purse your lips.

This bush is a variant plant, a version of pernickety – that quaint and curious word that seems to have sprung from a Scottish source – grown in a tight little alley (a snicket). It is rather prickly, and you would do well to avoid a thicket of it, lest you nick yourself.

Different gardeners do different things with persnickety. Some let it grow as is, though you should be careful not to let anything grow too persnickety. Others prefer to prune, to snip with shears or snap off with snee. Some like to get to what they see as the very heart of it, though it loses some of its more involved flavour. You can see the results in this bush here: the gardener has clipped away some letters – they’re on the ground; are they tenser or resent? Both are part of the character of persnickety. And what is left once those are removed? Just p ick y – ah, picky. A synonym, largely. But no, no, nowhere near the flavour. Bad gardener. One really must do these things just so, you know.

Baby, the way you talk

My latest article for TheWeek.com is on baby babbling: the different kinds, and whether – or to what extent – it’s really language:

What language is your baby speaking?

Your linguistic guide to baby babbling

guan

This is a very resonant word. I don’t mean that it sounds like a gong being struck, though it sort of does. I mean that it sounds like a number of other words:

Guam, a Pacific Island territory of the United States

guano, a word for accumulated bird poop, which came to English from Quechua via Spanish

gwan or gwaan, Jamaican patois for ‘go on’ meaning either ‘happen’ or ‘go away’; a popular phrase using it is dem fi gwan, ‘They should go away’, which you can hear in (among other things) Ruff Scott’s fun song “Tell Dem Fi Gwaan

gun, though more by appearance than by sound

gown, which is what you get if you reverse the diphthong in guan

Guantánamo, which I do not need to explain, and Guantánamera, the name of a well-known Cuban song about a woman from Guantánamo

Juan, especially if you’re really harsh with the j

guan, which is more than one word in Mandarin; it is two different surnames (depending on the tone), sometimes transliterated Kwan or Quon, it is a word for ‘shut’ and ‘barrier’ and a different word for ‘pipe’ – from the latter it names a double-reed woodwind, a sort of Chinese oboe (not that it sounds all that much like an oboe)

It also has that fish-like oral gesture that sucks air into the mouth, as you may see in quantity or French quoi.

What actually does guan signify? It’s the name of a South American bird roughly the size and appearance of a turkey – or perhaps a bit like a chicken with longer neck and tail and different colouring (typically black). Although the name could be a sound a bird would make, it’s not the sound the guan makes. English got the name from Spanish, which probably got it from a South American indigenous language (though it’s not certain which one).

There are actually several kinds of guan, some with brighter feathers, some with a big crest on the head. Here’s a video of a guan: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wt18fK44myA

You may wonder whether it deserves such a resonant name. But for all we know, it thinks the same about you. Anyway, something has to have the name. Might as well be this bird.

oculolinctus

This is a word that involves multiple liquid, licking, and crackling motions of the tongue. Back-front-front-back-front-front; hard, soft, soft, soft-to hard, hard, loose. Look at the shape of the word, oculolinctus: it almost looks like something round rolling while something long and straight comes in to interrupt or touch it. Round o opens and rolls c u, stops again o caught between l and l and then, after that loosens to i, rolls back n c, intercepted at t but rolls a quarter turn further u before finally becoming s – is that stopped, deflated, or spinning?

This is a delectable word to be sure, five syllables, obviously Latin, giving the tongue a workout. But what is it? A jungle cat, a dinosaur, a gastrointestinal disorder, an optical device?

How about something popular among Japanese tweens?

Imagine. How would a Japanese tween say this? It hardly fits with Japanese phonotactics. “Okurorinkutusu”? Hmm. Or maybe a different word altogether.

But how would they say whatever they say when they’re, say, licking another Japanese tween’s eyeball?

Umm-hmmm. Yup. That is what oculolinctus names. The practice of licking the eyeball. From oculo, combining form of the root for ‘eye’, and and linctus, noun, ‘licking’, from lingere, verb, ‘lick’. Why not lingus? Strictly speaking, lingus means ‘licker’; an oculolingus would in the original sense be an eye-licker. (And an oculolinguist? Here’s words in your eye.)

This has just lately shown up in the usual “news of weird things people are doing these days” sites, including the Huffington Post. It seems that the practice is a sort of step beyond simple kissing. According to this story by Ashik Siddique, it has been seen in Japanese manga comics occasionally for a few years (the story has a couple of links if you really want to see), but a video of the song “Spiral Lie” by the Japanese group Born is being named as the prime vector for its current popularity. (If you want to see the oculolinctal act but you don’t like the music, fast-forward to 3:30 in the video.)

Why would anyone stick their tongue in someone else’s eye? I remember a play I read some years ago in which a person does that to remove a speck from another person’s eye. That’s not why in this case. No, it’s erotic, and it’s because the eyeball has lots of nerve endings and thus is very sensitive.

It has lots of nerve endings, of course, to help you keep things out of your eye. Because things that get in your eye can damage it. A tongue is soft, but there may be particles. There may also be viruses and bacteria that can cause conjunctivitis, which is unpleasant, and doesn’t make for good oculolinctus.

Thus, the only tongue I recommend getting in your eye is the Engish tongue, i.e., the language you are reading, or any other tongue in the sense of ‘language’, and getting it in your eye by reading it. If you would to test your lingual dexterity for erotic purposes, may I suggest learning to use words well and seductively, savouring the taste of them, whispering them in the ear… (Imagine the person who thrills you most simply murmuring “oculolinctus” slowly and closely… so much better than doing what it names, no?)

Infecting someone’s ears and mind with desire is much better than infecting their eyes with bacteria.

wonk

You’re a wonk about a subject if you know the subject backwards.

Get it? Know backwards is wonk.

So is that where wonk comes from? Some people think so. Others – including some of the most noteworthy word wonks – declare that they don’t know. There are other words wonk, including a naval term for a greenhorn sailor, Australian slang for a white person or an effeminate man, and a mutated borrowing from Chinese meaning ‘yellow dog’ (and often seen in the phrase wonk dog). There is also the word wonky, which means ‘off-kilter, unstable, unreliable’, and there is some suggestion that wanker may have been an influence too (wanker, for those who don’t know, is a British term that literally calls the person an onanist and thus more broadly and figuratively functions similarly to its American counterpart jerk).

The word wonk was formerly more pejorative than it generally is now; just as nerd was once an insult but now is elevated to near-approbation, and geek has gone all the way from a term of disgust and abuse to high praise, wonk has moved from a word for a boring, excessively focused, swottish (that’s a Britishism) person, towards one for an interesting, respectworthy, highly focused, swottish person.

And there is now one area above all in which one may be a wonk. Yes, you could be a math wonk or a word wonk (or language wonk or whatever), but in the general usage wonk has a steady wordfriend: policy. Political staff who know all about the little details of how things are done and can be done and should be done are policy wonks. This seems to have become a popular term under President Clinton, who showed a predilection for hiring highly intelligent, highly focused, swottish people. You get an image of an introverted person with an abstractly intense look – and glasses, probably – dispensing precise thoughts and ramified recommendations to a blow-dried (but perhaps thoughtful) candidate. Nerdy, maybe a little, but no less attractive than the sharp tools on Criminal Minds, if without all the blood.

There’s no question about it, this word has an awkward sound. With its labiovelar start, its nasal open vowel, and its knock at the back, it sounds like something large and hollow being struck, or a goose venting at you. But if you look at the different elements that might make it so – /wɑ/, /ɑŋ/ or /ɑ̃/, /ɑ̃k/, /ŋk/ – they all show up in non-awkward words as well: water, song, think… Ugliness of sound is no preventative for prettiness of sense. Once you get to be a word wonk, possibilities open up all around you.

esculent

In word country, every word is esculent. I will not say that all are excellent, nor even succulent, but all are suitable for ingestion. Serve some in many contexts, others in the fanciest feasts, others in heavily spiced dishes, a few in just the most brutish contexts or perhaps under glass. Be aware that some words that are perfectly fine by themselves may combine into recipes that will make the heartiest word-eater gag, send your dear diners dashing for the door, end up crammed down your own throat. Some words provoke reactions up to anaphylaxis in some diners, and you must be aware. But there exists no word that is intrinsically so poisonous that none can eat it.

Esculent itself is especially esculent. It is not a word for just any recipe; the readers may need a schooling in it before they can digest it well, and its rarity makes it a caviar or morel word, except that it comes at no great price. The taste of it on the tongue is especially sapid; the initial /ɛsk/ is so much like the sound from intaking and swallowing the extra saliva that blossoms in the mouth after a taste of something exceptionally savory – or spicy. Then the tongue releases with a glide, licks the liquid /l/, lifts up for the mid-front vowel and laps forward again like a second small wave of surf at the beach edge of your alveolar ridge.

The letters of this word likewise lap, lick, dance; they give clues when rearranged, and form their secret cult, and after the glass is drained leave behind wet lees to be reflected in the cute lens of the drinker’s eye, tense with a lust for language. They hint of foreign or classical things, of an escuela or an escudo or something lucent.

Climb the escalier to heaven and you will see that the table is set with esca. What is the case here? In paradise Latin has a place at the table, and esca is ‘food’. From this came esculentus: fit to be eaten. This word esculentus is cute unless… unless what? Unless you’re not speaking Latin, I suppose. So we have English esculent, suitable for use as ‘suitable for use as food’. Such a dull definition for such a sensually palate-cleansing word, so excellent when used consensually. Cultivate it and cut a little esculent when it’s ready for serving; place it on the tip of your tongue, taste it, and serve it delicately. All words are esculent; this word is esculent.

A night out with some different accents

My latest article for TheWeek.com was published today, and it comes with another video. This time it’s a quick look at sound change, specifically as expressed in the sounds in the words night out:

A linguistic tour of a ‘night out’ around the world

And how to tell if it’s a Canadian or an Australian asking you out

Halifax, Haligonian

I just spent four days in and around Halifax, Nova Scotia. I was there to attend the annual Editors’ Association of Canada conference, which was a marvellous fun event (and not without its educational aspect). During the conference, I hosted some word tasting breaks. Two of the words we tasted were Halifax and Haligonian.

These are words with a notable vertical extension. The capital H’s make me think of the uprights on the two bridges that allow motorists to cross the harbour from Halifax to Dartmouth, or vice versa. Halifax has that eye-catching x at the end, which, in this instance, makes me think of the word meeting an abrupt stop, cutoff, collision, or even explosion. Haligonian, on the other hand, just goes on, the f replaced by g, the ax dulled to onian.

The effect on the sound is similar: although both begin with the breath and liquid (the same as start halitosis, which reminds me that I had just eaten smoked salmon with onions when I conducted the tasting of these words), Halifax fires off the teeth and lips and flies back to the back of the mouth to hit at [k] and then hiss away with [s], like broken glass or a punctured tire or a few other percussives with entropic dénouement. Haligonian skips the fire-off and goes straight to the back, but the bounce isn’t as hard, and instead of immediately hissing on the tongue tip with [s] it goes through a long, lip-rounding /o:/ and touches twice softly on the tongue tip with the two nasals.

Are you wondering what the relation between Halifax and Haligonian is? Unless you’re from Halifax, you may well wonder. On the other hand, if you’re from Halifax, you know what a Haligonian is: you are one. Haligonian is the adjectival form for people and things pertaining to, or residing in, Halifax.

Hmm. It does not from this follow that gonian is the adjectival form of fax. Someone from Carfax is not a Cargonian. Your fax machine’s toner and paper are not gonian supplies. The real reason for Haligonian lies in etymology – false etymology.

Where does the name Halifax come from? Well, the city in Nova Scotia took its name from George Montague-Dunk, the second Earl of Halifax. The Halifax of which he was earl was (and is) a town in west Yorkshire. It has existed since before the year 1100, which makes it harder to know for sure where the name comes from. In the 1500s, some scholars proposed that it was from Old English halig feax, ‘holy hair’. Why would it be called that? Well, there is a legend – possibly started around the same time – that the head of John the Baptist is buried there. There’s also another legend about a maiden who was murdered by a lustful priest whose advances she spurned.

From this halig feax, anyway, came a Latin version of the town name: Haligonia – that’s halig plus the common onia suffix you see on many place names. And it is from that that the adjective comes: Haligonian. Of course it could be Halifaxian or Halifaxer or Halifaxish or whatever, but those are obvious and expected. People love an in-group thing, an unexpected deviation that gives you special knowledge. And, certainly in the Nova Scotian city, there is a pride in knowing that the denizens are Haligonians. It’s just one of their things.

But do you remember that I said that it was false etymology? Yeah. It very likely is. It’s more likely that the town’s name comes from Old English halh-gefeaxe (which would have been pronounced similarly to how we might say “halhyafaxa” now). This means something like ‘coarse grass area in nook of land’. Which is a more sensible and plausible name for a place, really, if you can say it in one or two words.

But the designation Haligonian is established now and isn’t going anywhere. You may find it to be like polygon or goon or Lego or goalie or haggle or any of quite a few words that use some of the sounds. That’s rather different from hallux and Carfax and Shadowfax and fax machine and effects and fix and such like. You may or may not find the Hali connection to be strong enough to override the difference in the ends of the words.

Halifax in Yorkshire apparently had a reputation as a place of draconian punishment (including a decapitation machine that anticipated the guillotine by centuries). The 17th-century poet John Taylor wrote, in his “Beggar’s Litany,” “From Hell, Hull, and Halifax, Good Lord, deliver us!” I can tell you that I felt no need to be delivered from Halifax, Nova Sc0tia, when I was there. (As to Hull and Hell, Canadians will tell you the former no longer exists, now being part of Gatineau, and the latter was looking set to freeze over until the Leafs were knocked out of the playoffs.) You may wish to be delivered from Haligonian, but you are unlikely to get your wish unless you leave Halifax. Regardless of its origin, it seems it won’t be gone any time soon.